Devils and Porcelain
by Djinns
Summary: "You're not supposed to be here; you know that now, with every fiber of your being. Therefore, you have no idea how your ghostly presence will be of any assistance, but you promised you would come." [Spoilers up to season 4.5]


_Devils and Porcelain_

_Two little devils in a porcelain shop._

Your mother didn't appreciate how your father nicknamed the both of you.

_Two little devils, in a porcelain shop. _

Back in those times, everything seemed so much simpler. There you were, you and Charles, without a care in the world. No worries to weigh you down as you ran across the small aisles, your mother's complaints too far behind to even reach your ears. You really were, back then, two little devils.

To be fair, the nickname would've been more appropriate if the shop had been more of… well, of a shop. Some small adjustments would've been nice – proper displays for the porcelain sets, improved merchandise and, of course, customers. Those things had been missing ever since you were born, and as a result you barely recognized the space as a place of commerce; it had always been this empty store where your father spent his days, away from the house, between cricket games.

You Charles and loved to tag along, always pleased with discovering the new china sets, pretending you were a Lord and a Lady, receiving exotic guests and discussing the Empire's politics over tea. Too young to grasp any real concepts of colonialism, of poverty, of class-ruling. Those things would catch up to you eventually, and so very rapidly…

After they did, the shop stopped being a safe place, a haven of playfulness and leisure. It became a place of business – and a bad one at that. It reeked of shame and other banalities. When your father asked his sons who wanted to inherit the shop, you begged Charles not to take him up on his offer, convincing him that the two of you could figure something out. A way to lead a better life. The one you dreamt of, between those old porcelain cups, chasing after each other and living incredible adventures.

Inseparable, you two were.

Everywhere you went, you caused mayhem. Your mother implied you were trying to live true by your nickname, and she might have been right, then. It was, after all, quite an honor to be this young and yet to add your mark to this world, to perturb its natural order. Hence, Charles' presence was always convenient for you. He would whine a lot, but still obeyed every command you gave him – completed even the most tedious tasks, simply because you asked.

Both of your parents had concerns about the influence you had over him. After all, a seven-year-old girl wasn't supposed to be ordering around her older brother, but you had always been so smart, so quick on your feet... Even your oldest brothers, Oscar and William, knew better than to contradict you – although they were also wise enough not to get trapped inside your little schemes.

Charles had no such luck, and therefore he followed you around like a lost puppy, his thumb in his mouth, waiting for the next rabbit you would pull out of your hat. You would've done anything to impress that child, to make him smile, although you pulled his hair and pinched his cheeks and mocked the way he walked, and talked… You picked on him just as much as the other kids did at school, but you did so with such assertiveness, he couldn't even respond. He became this constant shadow behind your steps, a ghostly figure you loved with all your heart, but never dared say.

Already, you were a woman of actions more than a woman of words – although you mastered both to a great extent. That is why, when you noticed bruises appearing on your brother's arms and the tears that filled his eyes when he came home from the rugby games neighborhood kids held in a nearby park, – the ones you were strictly prohibited to attend –, you knew you had to take matters into your own hands. One night, you left the dinner table as quickly as you possibly could; locking yourself up in the bedroom you shared with Charles. There, you went through your brother's clothes with haste, desperate to find proper attire to attend the next game, the following day, in disguise.

You remember how you fell asleep that night, imagining that you were a hero, finally living an adventure worth living; perpetuating a noble action without regards for your own safety. Never had it crossed your mind that, perhaps, you would end up loving the game, and completely forget why you had enrolled in the first place. To this day, you still don't know which one of those boys was beating up your brother – but you are aware, of course, of the exact moment when it stopped.

On that park you called, then, a field, you discovered the agonizing pleasure of being entirely out of breath, every one of your muscles itching in pain as you pushed yourself over your physical limits. The freedom of movements your brother's clothes gave you was nothing compared to the sheer ecstasy of being a member of a group that, together, night after night, battled against the enemy. That such enemies were merely kids from another neighborhood did not stop you from creating illusions of grandeur around every victory, as if you were champions ruling over Bromley, undefeated, the greatest of heroes.

It did not take long for your mother to understand what you were doing, but she did not attempt to stop you. In fact, she was probably relieved not to have you around the shop anymore, scaring away customers with your tales of dragons and sea monsters or breaking expensive plates with your carelessness. Also, because your father's salary as a cricket player was the main subsistence of the house, perhaps she caressed the possibility of having another kind of revenue – but you can't tell, really, if this was another one of your stories, or a discussion you overheard one night, when you couldn't fall asleep.

And then, as life usually does, everything changed in a fraction of a second – the day of the storm.

There had been worries that the dark clouds gathering over the city would eventually rain down, flooding the streets and the lowest stories. For days, adults prepared for the worst, imagining effective new ways to render their windows and doors impermeable. Maybe that was a sign that something important was about to slip through the cracks of your otherwise impervious daily routine and alter it entirely, as a mold growing evermore.

That evening, it started raining lightly, as if nature had decided it wasn't time yet for mayhem. The raindrops were almost warm on your face as you walked hand-in-hand with Charles to the park. Under the dark clouds, it looked like nighttime, and although it scared the both of you, it also intrigued you, and so you marched on.

Not many kids made it there that evening, and you were barely enough to play, but you decided to make-do, and started the game anyway. Half an hour later, your clothes were soaking wet with now heavy rain and dirtier than ever, and you couldn't have been happier. Running in the mud offered new sensations to your seven-year-old feet, and you once again congratulated yourself for disobeying your mother's advices against "that dreadful game" you loved so much.

You never saw that tackle coming.

Thinking back to that day, you know you should have. There had been some rumors spreading around the neighborhood – some had discovered you weren't a boy, and accordingly, they believed you couldn't be allowed to play with them. Many were upset and, naively perhaps, you continuously ran faster, threw better than most. You argued about rules as if you possessed every right they had. Somehow, you should've known that tackle was long coming.

When it hit you, it didn't hurt nearly as much as you thought it would. It was later, when you were alone in your bed, after the doctor had left, that you truly felt it. Your first broken bone, and all because of one simple storm.

That terrible rainstorm was quite similar to the one that is shedding down on Univille right now: the rain fills every gutter, water running on the ground as if looking for shelter. It won't find it anytime soon, you think. This day is bound to remain dark as night, as if nature itself felt the grief and sadness of this South Dakota town.

Under the porch, safe from the rain, your mind wanders in your past. You don't understand why it tries to clash distant memories with this future you still cannot call your own. You're not supposed to be here; you know that now, with every fiber of your being. Therefore, you have no idea how your ghostly presence will be of any assistance, but you promised you would come. There are people counting on you, people to whom you owe the world. You have been told that you are needed now, and thus here you are, more or less against your will.

Your knuckles hit the cold stained glass and after a few seconds that seem like forever, you see a shadow walking towards. You pray for it to be her, but you already know it isn't. She's not here; none of them are at the Bed and Breakfast this morning, which is why you were asked to arrive at this hour. You will see them later, at the funeral. You don't know how many more of these you will be able to attend.

The darkened silhouette opens the door and you smile with relief. Irene is here. She'll take care of everything, and she'll know what to say, what to do, where to go. You will only have to follow, and act accordingly.

"You need to be more gentle, Helena", your mother's voice reminds you. The tone, infuriating despite its imaginary state, sparks up your memory once again. She used to repeat the same demand, over and over, as if an incantation to exorcise the will out of you. All your life, you never wanted to be nicer. You couldn't fathom how it could change anything; it certainly wasn't helpful when kids beat up Charles or when you were refused to science classes because of your gender. To be gentle was never a tool of survival, and if there is one thing you excel at, it is surviving. A cockroach, you are; hard to get rid of.

And so here you stand, more than a hundred years later, in an empty bed and breakfast, telling yourself to "please, be gentle".

It's harder than you think. Always was.

* * *

Between cedars and tombstones, black umbrellas are regrouping, the voices of their owners like whispers through the rain that is still dreadfully falling. Your feet fight against the mud at each step, the ground pulling on your boots as if to warn you not to go ahead. You cannot stop now, even if you wanted to, because through the strangers and the familiar faces, you have seen her. She hasn't noticed you.

Yet.

You follow Irene down the hill, along a small path of rocks, your body setting a faster pace with every second. You almost feel as if running, although to the untrained eye, you are simply a visitor, walking with ease through a nearly-flooded graveyard. You feel strangely out of breath and so you concentrate on your respiration, hoping to come out as casually normal as you could possibly be.

You, the time-travelling cockroach.

Entirely focused on your troubled self, you don't notice Claudia's eyes watering up as her smile widens, her stare locked on you. You don't see Pete's uncertainty being replaced by a welcoming grin. No, all you see is her curly hair falling on her shoulders, and the way she holds her umbrella – as if she was trying to pull herself out of this place.

It takes only a few seconds for Myka to turn around and lock eyes with you, and when she does, she stares at you as if seeing a ghost, and in this instant, you might as well be one.

As if it were forbidden to speak of it, no one asks about your whereabouts or even how you ended up in Univille. Awkwardly, the group moves to include you and Ms Fredrick, restraining the conversations to a minimum. Words fill your lungs but you tighten your jaw and lock them inside; one last respect to the deceased.

A woman in her forties is now speaking louder than the rest, and you are surprised to realize that she is the reverend of this gathering. As the ceremony begins, the rain slowly dies out, as if tuning itself to the healing process the celebrant if speaking of. Her voice is one of authority and peace, and standing alone on one side of the casket, she faces the small group of people as a master conducting an orchestra.

On your side, there are a few persons you have never seen before. People from Univille, you gather, who had known Leena for years without ever knowing anything meaningful about her. These normal citizens, to whom she appeared as a decent and ordinary innkeeper, are here to pay their respect, although they have no clue of the depth of this world's loss. In between the black umbrellas, you can easily distinguish the Regents and the agents from the rest by how afflicted they are to be standing here. You think this analysis of the crowd probably isn't the appropriate way of dealing with your own grief, and so you try once again to focus on the reverend's speech.

She speaks of love and family as if they were linked. You retain a sigh.

Your mind continuously slips on the celebrant's words as a snake on the ground, rapidly returning to your subtle observations. On your left, from the corner of your eye, you see Claudia clutching to a young man you hadn't thought you would meet again. Agent Jinks, you know now, was undercover when he took part in torturing you – Emily Lake, that is. A shiver runs down your spine as you recall those anonymous months of your life, the memories seemingly belonging to someone else, but nevertheless revolving around you.

Agent Jinks' eyes are kind and deeply saddened today, as they were back then, you seem to recall. Emily didn't handle threats and kidnapping very well, therefore she was unconscious for a fair part of her time with Sykes' men. As far as you can tell, that young man was a good person anyway. An honest agent falling with the wrong crowd, you thought of him then. A tale you could easily relate to.

As for Claudia's cries, each sob clenches your heart as if it were about to finally stop beating; thus you try your best to avoid looking at her. One short glance her way and you wish you could simply take her in your arms and make her forget everything, as you did when Christina had a nightmare. You know Claudia will never awake from this one; reality is often so harsh on the brilliant souls that walk this Earth. Grief has never left her side, as it stands with you. That particular travelling companion has its way of inscribing itself in your footsteps, of weighing you down wherever you go. Even through time, it refuses to let go.

Your hands are trembling, you notice, as your anxiety increases with every second. The overall confidence you have in your abilities doesn't extend here; dealing with emotions, were they yours or others, was never your strength. How many times had Charles warn you that your lack of empathy would be the end of you? How many lovers left your side, sickened by your cold, scientific approach to every situation? You always were peculiar and awkward when it came to sentiment; you only had enough grace and confidence to hide it properly. To you, empathy comes but with hardship, your heart hurting as a strained muscle.

A few meters to your right, Pete stands rigidly, his tightened jaw and closed fists betraying his calm demeanor and showing the unbearable tension that runs through him. Immobile, he stares ahead as a soldier awaiting his orders. On his side, a woman – his mother, you have been told – lays a delicate gloved hand on his shoulder, as if a tether to this world. You can only imagine the struggle blurring his thoughts, the deep urge to numb his mind with alcohol, to drink until this dreadful day, and the ones before that, are erased forever.

Until Artie's actions are finally undone.

You never could've predicted that you, of all people, would end up pitying Agent Nielsen. However, you understand precisely the situation he has found himself in; after all, you cowardly refused to attend Wolly's funeral. Though the bullet that killed him then wasn't yours, his blood was on your hands, and you could never forgive yourself for that, just like Artie will never stop living with the guilt of having murdered Leena. Artifact possession or not, he considered a blasphemous act to attend her memorial service, therefore Irene didn't insist on it, and neither did you.

One hardly comes back from hurting the people they love in such an irreparable way.

Your mind drifts in memories of what was, soaked with guilt and sadness as you allow yourself one look at Myka. Because she is standing in front of you, you can barely see her face, although from the stillness of her body you can deduce she is fighting against her tears. It doesn't surprise you to find her pulling up a brave face, and when she raises her hand to her cheek, you immediately picture the smeared teardrop slowly drying up on the tip of her delicate fingers.

As if acting on instinct, you find yourself stepping forward, your hand fumbling to reach Myka's. Her skin feels as ice against the warmth of your palm, her fingers wrapping themselves around yours in a graceful gesture. She turns her head slightly and stares into your eyes for a few seconds, silently thanking you. Your heart skips a beat and you are glad she didn't notice when she resumes her previous position, green orbs now laying on the reverend.

In your life, you have rarely felt this utterly useful.

Of course, solving puzzles, retrieving artifacts, creating new inventions, all those achievements brought their fair share of pride and a certain feeling of helpfulness. Being Christina's mother offered you thousands of moments where you felt needed, accomplished even. None of those compare with the renewed strength that is invigorating you today, with the knowledge of having survived this many trials and to still stand your ground.

Holding Myka Bering's hand, you retrieve what you thought was long lost: the desire to build a better tomorrow.

It isn't until the end of the memorial service that she finally lets go of your hand. As the black umbrellas disperse themselves through the cedars, the Warehouse family remains close, holding each other in their arms as if they had been separated for years. A few meters aside, Irene and you patiently wait in retreat, quiet witnesses to their pain.

When the group starts walking to the parking lot, it doesn't take more than a few footsteps before Pete gently pushes Myka in a small pond, a childish smile slowly appearing on his face. The curly brunette doesn't say a word as she continues to walk before jumping in a nearby puddle, the splatter falling onto her partner before he can react. Their pants are rapidly drenched as Claudia and Steve also retaliate, having received their fair share of the splash. The gentle teasing seems to appease the agents as they carry on their silly fight, as if they could only find comfort in the playful dynamic of their little family.

Observing from the back, you cannot repress the smile that shines across your face.

_Little devils in a porcelain shop_, you think to yourself.


End file.
